A Chauffeur's Perk
by Peachdreamsandperseus
Summary: He's never really been a believer in fate or destiny, not even the famed luck of the Irish convinces him, but one thing he is absolutely certain of is that getting to know her, being able to fall head over heels in love with this magnificent woman – his wife – and having her love him in return had most definitely been a chauffeur's perk.


_**I was inspired by rewatching 1x04 the other day and also that gloriously squee-worthy spoiler pic that I saw tonight (the one with the hands). I'm so excited for what series three has in store for these two. This is mostly set between episodes 2x06 and 2x07 - enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

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November 1917 – it's his birthday, the fifth he's spent here in England. He's another year older, allegedly another year wiser. He smiles as he unwraps the parcel sent to him from Ireland by his eldest brother, Niall, simply with a note attached that read "_A bottle of the good stuff for my little brother – happy birthday. Stay safe._"

The gentle tapping of heels on the cold stone floor of the garage tells him he's got company, and there's only one person that it could be at this time of night.

"I'm not even going to ask how you managed to sneak down here," he smirks, not even turning to look at her.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is," she replies with a hint of flirtation – it's an echo of the past, of the days before the war came when they would hide themselves away from the rest of the world and just be themselves. "Besides, the only person who would probably notice I'm gone is Anna and she'd never say anything."

"Mmm, I suppose you're right, she..." only now does he turn to look at her and, when he does, he's completely mesmerised by the very sight of her. He's grown so used to seeing her in uniform these past few years that he's almost forgotten what she looks like in all her finery – a goddess. There is absolutely no other way to describe her. She no longer looks permanently exhausted, even though he can tell she's hankering for the days when she had purpose. Beauty radiates from her – illuminating and bringing warmth to this dusty old garage on a cold winter's night.

"A little birdy told me that it's your birthday..." She's so close to him now that he can see every single goosebump on her skin – she must be absolutely freezing and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to take her in his arms and hold her there until she's warm. "And I'm so sorry but, what with everything that's been going on recently I... well I forgot to get you anything."

He furrows her brow at her. "You don't have to get me anything."

"I know but... I want to. You're my friend and that's what friends do, isn't it?" she asks with a smile that completely melts his heart and tears it apart at the same time. "_Friends_" she said – but they both know that they're so much more than that now.

"So you plan on making it up to me, is that is?"

"That's about it, yes."

"Well, milady," he teases – addressing her by her title for what must be the first time in years. "It's half-past-ten at night in the middle of winter, I must admit I'm quite curious."

"So you should be," she replies, again flirting with him slightly.

"_This is what our marriage would be like_," he thinks to himself. "_Unpredictable and full of surprises. Take this chance, my darling girl... bet on me and you'll see just how wonderful we'll be together_."

"Do you still keep those spare blankets in the car?"

"Yes," he nods.

Sybil smiles. "Good, bring those... oh and that as well," she adds, pointing at the bottle on the workbench.

**_-xxx-_**

This is improper even by their standards – the Lady and the chauffeur who tore up the rulebook so very long ago now sit side by side on the floor, leaning against the garage wall and drinking whisky under the stars, her with his uniform jacket draped over her slender shoulders. Like so many of the moments they've spent alone together, conversation flows easily between them as they swap stories about their childhood, discuss their favourite books and the goings on in the world beyond the four walls of their little sanctuary. It's been so long since they last did this and neither of them is sure when they might get the chance again.

It was during his very first week at Downton that O'Brien had told him "_clothes are a valet's perk, not a chauffeur's_." Now, as he sits here listening to her tell a tale from her days at the training college in York and the girls she seems to have made very good friends with, he realises that **this** is a chauffeur's perk. He's seen her at her best, he's seen her at her worst. He's seen her so happy it's as though she's floating high above the clouds and so low and so sad that it's made his heart hurt. No other way would he have had the chance – the **privilege** – to witness this, to see Lady Sybil Crawley grow into this wonderfully confident and beautiful woman. He never once seen her as a girl, not ever, but he has seen the change in her. His first job in service, just months after his father had passed away when he was sixteen, had been as a footman in the household of a wealthy family in Dublin. He knows that if he'd come here in that old capacity then she would have simply been the daughter of his employer – yes that is **technically** what she's supposed to be now, but neither of them really gives a fig for the rules where a kindred spirit is concerned and he thanks his lucky stars that he'd been presented with this opportunity all those years ago.

Speaking of stars he watches as her eyes drift towards the heavens and he can see that there slightly glassy on account of the alcohol – he'd had to laugh as he'd watched her take that first sip. She'd winced as it burned her throat whilst trying to maintain her ladylike composure. He'd teased her, saying that she wouldn't be trying that again in a hurry and she'd defiantly raised the bottle to her lips again. He'd warned her not to try and keep up with him, but she'd shot him **that **look that had wordlessly asked "_Is that a challenge, Mr Branson?_"

"Have I ever told you about my Uncle Jack?" she asks.

Tom shakes his head. "No... at least I don't think so."

"Hmmm... he's Mama's brother. He's an archaeologist. Well, he was... now he's a professor at Harvard or Yale, I can never remember which. I haven't seen him in years but he spent a few summers here when I was I child. He told me stories of all the places he's been to and the things he's seen... Egypt, Greece, even China. But do you know what fascinated me the most?"

"Tell me."

"He said that, no matter where in the world you are, the moon is no bigger than your thumb." She holds her right arm up, closing one eye and he mimics her movements with his left. "See?"

"Well," Tom smiles. "You learn something new every day." On impulse he takes her hand – the one still suspended in mid-air – in his and twines their fingers together. They're icy cold and she gasps at the contact, but there's something so wonderfully familiar about his touch that make her never want to let go. She brings their hands down to rest between them, both content to sit in silence and stare at them – neither will say it to the other, but they know how right and perfect this is.

"So," Tom says, breaking the silence at last. "Why did you come here tonight?

"I told you... because it's your birthday and I wanted to come and help you celebrate," she smiles but the look in his eyes tells her that he's not entirely convinced. "That and I'm rather... well... bored. I'm sorry, that sounds awful... but I am. Things have quietened down so much in recent weeks and I know it's going to get worse what with the end of the war, and I can see that my family are doing all that they can to get me away from nursing and back to playing the darling society daughter but I just can't do it... that's not who I am anymore."

"Do you want me to be honest with you?"

"Always."

"Well," he says, taking another swig of whisky. "I don't think that's who you've ever been. You're so much more than all of this... you know how I feel about you, I think you're wonderful and you have so much to give to the world."

Her heart skips several beats and she can't help but smile. "I meant what I said, you know," she says. "I won't keep you waiting forever for an answer."

"And I meant what I said," he tells her, giving her hand a loving squeeze. "I'd **would** wait forever, if that's what it took. I'm sorry that I've tried to pressure you into making a decision at times, but this is a big step for you to take..."

"For us."

"Us?"

Sybil nods – it's probably the alcohol that's making her so brazen, but she knows that this needs to be said and she doubts she'll get another chance soon. "I can't deny that I feel something for you anymore, but whether it's love, I just don't know. Surely you know by now that love means nothing in my world, we're not trained to seek a marriage based on it... Granny once said that if the aristocracy had married for love then it would have become extinct a long time ago."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"Ahh, yes but then we never would have met."

Tom's lips curl into a smile. "You have a point there... there are a lot of paths I could have taken in life, but only this one would have led me to you. I couldn't possibly have known that it would when I made the decision to come here but whatever happens between us, whatever you decide, I will be eternally thankful for that."

"Tom?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you, for everything... I... I've never really had friends before, not proper ones anyway, and now to have one that I... well, that's to say that I think I might..." The word is on the tip of her tongue and, reaching for the whisky bottle knowing that it's going to take a little Dutch courage, she contemplates saying it. "_Love... go on, say it. Tell him, it's just four letters... one little word,_" she tells herself. Then the rational side of her brain takes hold of her again and says "_but it's not just one little word, is it? It's a very big word that changes everything._"

A four letter word does come out of her mouth, but it's not the one she was thinking of. "Snow!" she exclaims as she feels the first few flakes fall on her nose.

Tom smiles at the absolute look of wonder on her face as she turns to look at him again – he wants to kiss her so badly, to sweep her up into his arms, carry her back to his bed in the cottage and make love to her whilst whispering words of love and devotion in her ear in both English and Gaelic. He loves her with every fibre of his being and, from the things she's said tonight, he's almost certain that it's only a matter of time before she admits it too.

Finally untangling her frozen fingers from his, Sybil picks one of the jam jars that he uses to keep candles in – he'd known that he could have just taken an oil lamp outside with them, but the poet in him had thought that this was just a little bit more romantic – and holds it out towards him.

"Make a wish," she whispers huskily.

His eyes are locked on hers and only now does he realise how close they are to one another and how intimate this whole scene must appear. He only has one wish in this world right now – yes, it's entirely selfish given everything that he believes in politically, but none of that seems to matter right here in this moment. Closing his eyes, he takes a breath and blows out the candle.

"Do you want to know what I wished for?" he asks.

"No," Sybil replies and shakes her head a little too vigorously which makes the world around her start spinning. "Because then it won't come true." What she does next takes him completely by surprise and makes him think that a tiny part of his wish has already come true. She leans in and kisses his cheek, right on the corner of his mouth. "Happy birthday, Tom."

And it is indeed the happiest birthday he's had for years.

**_-xxx-_**

There are many months and many hundreds of miles between that moment and this and if he thought he'd been lucky that night then this is on an entirely different level. He watches her as she sleeps – her back and shoulders exposed to him as she lies naked in bed, **their** bed, her wild ebony hair a striking and sensual contrasted to the ivory of her skin. Being careful not to wake her, he reaches out and traces a pattern on her skin, using his fingertip to ever so gently join the freckles on her back. She's beautiful, so very beautiful, far more beautiful than he'd ever even dared to imagine. He'd marvelled at the sight of each new part of her that he'd uncovered as he'd removed her clothes on this their wedding night, stripping them from her and tossing them aside like the threads of an old life. The wish he'd made that night – the night of his birthday – had come true in a way that was beyond his wildest dreams. He's never really been a believer in fate or destiny, not even the famed luck of the Irish convinces him, but one thing he is absolutely certain of is that getting to know her, being able to fall head over heels in love with this magnificent woman – his **wife** – and having her love him in return had most definitely been a chauffeur's perk.


End file.
